Martyred Medic
Daiya was in bad shape, and again the Doc cursed that he'd had to put her to work in her condition.
All the signs of shock were there - clammy skin, low body temperature, unfocused eyes, babbling speech. But the fact that she was in shock was actually the only thing giving Doc Painless hope. He didn't want to believe that this was the real, conscious Daiya speaking, because the words coming out of her mouth dragged his heart down into his boots. She wanted so badly to have killed Hacks, to have stuck back against the person who'd hurt her. It was a natural response, but not a charitable one. Hacks had obviously not been herself when she'd attacked, and she was no threat right now. The street medic didn't want to believe that his friend would kill a helpless person.
"I coulda just done nothing, right?" Her pupils were large, her lips tinged with blue, her eyes staring past him.
"You could have," the Doc replied, scooting a second chair over to the pair of them. "But you're better than that." Turning around, he tugged over another chair, its feet gently scraping along the polished floor. He arranged the trio of seats so that there was an empty one on each side of the one Daiya sat on, the best he could do for a place to lie down while Hacks occupied the table. "I'm going to elevate your feet now, okay? It'll help you feel better. Can you lie down for me?" He realized he was going to need another chair; she was just a little too tall to lie across two chairs and the crate without some part of her dangling off. Fortunately there was one more in the kitchen.
"Eiko would be so mad at me," Daiya told him as he slid his arms behind her, supporting her head and neck as he eased her down across the seats of the chairs. "He used ta always talk about wringing their necks. Didn't matter who, just whoever pissed him off that week... More like that day!" The Doc's gentle smile flickered as she spoke. What a way to grow up, surrounded by people whose first resort - first choice for amusement, even - was violence. Denon was so broken, so full of hunger and desperation... and the Corpos in their billion-credit mansions just tuned it all out, writing off the terrible cost of the free market that ensured their continued wealth and control.
"'dja know he's the one who taught me the most? I mean, how ta survive?" "I didn't know that," the Doc said, showing that he was listening. It was good that she was still talking, even if what she was saying weighed heavy on his heart. Talking meant that she was breathing, that her heart was beating, that her neurons were firing. He listened as she rattled off all the things her street mentor had taught her, a catalog of skills that the medic wished she'd never had to learn. "Useful things to know," was all he said in reply, keeping his thoughts to himself. She didn't want his pity; it would offend her dignity, dignity she'd clawed from Denon's gutters through her stubborn will to survive.
He wasn't here to judge her. She'd done what she had to do. He just wanted her to have a better future.
He wanted that for everyone trapped in this hyper-capitalist hellscape.
Reaching over to one of the shelves, the Doc grabbed a box of dinnerware, just the thing to elevate her feet about twelve inches above her head. It would improve circulation to her organs through the simple power of gravity. But then she suddenly twisted sideways, hissing as her weight came down on her injured hip, and he reconsidered. He didn't want to move her legs if it might exacerbate the injury or cause her pain. A chill ran down his spine as she pressed something into his free hand - a kitchen knife. How long had she been hiding it in her jacket pocket? How long had she been considering driving it into Hacks's heart while the wounded runner lay there, helpless, dying?
He put the knife in the box of cutlery and set it aside, pushing it well out of reach.
"I guess I'm pretty chit at it, huh?" "That's one way of looking at it," the Doc replied gently, "but it's not the way I'd choose." Reaching into his emergency bag, he pulled out a small duraplast cylinder and pressed a button at the end. The top popped off, and a highly-compressed blanket fwooshed out of the end, enough fabric to cover a Wookiee crammed into a space no bigger around than his forearm. "Never mind about your feet," the street medic told his second patient. "Let's focus on getting you warm. Lie flat on your back for me, so we don't put weight on your hip." He laid the blanket over her from chin to toes, then let it go to work.
It was a shock cloth, designed to stabilize her temperature and micro-inject healing agents as needed.
"I choose to look at it this way," he said, kneeling down beside her. He grappled for the right words, ones that would make sense to someone who'd grown up the way she had. He couldn't relate to her from experience, hadn't been through what she had. He could only try to empathize in a way that wouldn't come across as patronizing. "You're stronger than you were then, and cleverer. You don't have to do things that way any more. You're strong enough that mercy is an option, because you can handle whatever comes after." The Doc stood, hoping what he'd said had made sense. "Get some rest, Daiya. You'll feel better when you wake up. I'll be right here."
Turning from his young friend, the street medic walked back over to the table, where Cassus was keeping watch. After all their efforts, Hacks did seem to have truly stabilized... and stabilized enough that she was actually waking up. This would be a disorienting experience for her, he had no doubt. He hadn't been there for the firefight that'd led to all this, but from what he could gather it seemed that Hacks didn't remember them. Now here she was, laid out on a restaurant's kitchen table, covered in dried blood and bacta-soaked dressings, waking up to yet more strangers. "Thanks for keeping an eye on her, Cassus," he said. "Welcome back, Hacks. You're among friends."
At the time, he just hoped he was right about that, hoped she wasn't a doppelgänger or other such imposter.
Much later on, after all that would happen at the Tatt-Chat and beyond, he'd wonder...
Would it have been better if he'd let Daiya end Hacks then and there?
All the signs of shock were there - clammy skin, low body temperature, unfocused eyes, babbling speech. But the fact that she was in shock was actually the only thing giving Doc Painless hope. He didn't want to believe that this was the real, conscious Daiya speaking, because the words coming out of her mouth dragged his heart down into his boots. She wanted so badly to have killed Hacks, to have stuck back against the person who'd hurt her. It was a natural response, but not a charitable one. Hacks had obviously not been herself when she'd attacked, and she was no threat right now. The street medic didn't want to believe that his friend would kill a helpless person.
"I coulda just done nothing, right?" Her pupils were large, her lips tinged with blue, her eyes staring past him.
"You could have," the Doc replied, scooting a second chair over to the pair of them. "But you're better than that." Turning around, he tugged over another chair, its feet gently scraping along the polished floor. He arranged the trio of seats so that there was an empty one on each side of the one Daiya sat on, the best he could do for a place to lie down while Hacks occupied the table. "I'm going to elevate your feet now, okay? It'll help you feel better. Can you lie down for me?" He realized he was going to need another chair; she was just a little too tall to lie across two chairs and the crate without some part of her dangling off. Fortunately there was one more in the kitchen.
"Eiko would be so mad at me," Daiya told him as he slid his arms behind her, supporting her head and neck as he eased her down across the seats of the chairs. "He used ta always talk about wringing their necks. Didn't matter who, just whoever pissed him off that week... More like that day!" The Doc's gentle smile flickered as she spoke. What a way to grow up, surrounded by people whose first resort - first choice for amusement, even - was violence. Denon was so broken, so full of hunger and desperation... and the Corpos in their billion-credit mansions just tuned it all out, writing off the terrible cost of the free market that ensured their continued wealth and control.
"'dja know he's the one who taught me the most? I mean, how ta survive?" "I didn't know that," the Doc said, showing that he was listening. It was good that she was still talking, even if what she was saying weighed heavy on his heart. Talking meant that she was breathing, that her heart was beating, that her neurons were firing. He listened as she rattled off all the things her street mentor had taught her, a catalog of skills that the medic wished she'd never had to learn. "Useful things to know," was all he said in reply, keeping his thoughts to himself. She didn't want his pity; it would offend her dignity, dignity she'd clawed from Denon's gutters through her stubborn will to survive.
He wasn't here to judge her. She'd done what she had to do. He just wanted her to have a better future.
He wanted that for everyone trapped in this hyper-capitalist hellscape.
Reaching over to one of the shelves, the Doc grabbed a box of dinnerware, just the thing to elevate her feet about twelve inches above her head. It would improve circulation to her organs through the simple power of gravity. But then she suddenly twisted sideways, hissing as her weight came down on her injured hip, and he reconsidered. He didn't want to move her legs if it might exacerbate the injury or cause her pain. A chill ran down his spine as she pressed something into his free hand - a kitchen knife. How long had she been hiding it in her jacket pocket? How long had she been considering driving it into Hacks's heart while the wounded runner lay there, helpless, dying?
He put the knife in the box of cutlery and set it aside, pushing it well out of reach.
"I guess I'm pretty chit at it, huh?" "That's one way of looking at it," the Doc replied gently, "but it's not the way I'd choose." Reaching into his emergency bag, he pulled out a small duraplast cylinder and pressed a button at the end. The top popped off, and a highly-compressed blanket fwooshed out of the end, enough fabric to cover a Wookiee crammed into a space no bigger around than his forearm. "Never mind about your feet," the street medic told his second patient. "Let's focus on getting you warm. Lie flat on your back for me, so we don't put weight on your hip." He laid the blanket over her from chin to toes, then let it go to work.
It was a shock cloth, designed to stabilize her temperature and micro-inject healing agents as needed.
"I choose to look at it this way," he said, kneeling down beside her. He grappled for the right words, ones that would make sense to someone who'd grown up the way she had. He couldn't relate to her from experience, hadn't been through what she had. He could only try to empathize in a way that wouldn't come across as patronizing. "You're stronger than you were then, and cleverer. You don't have to do things that way any more. You're strong enough that mercy is an option, because you can handle whatever comes after." The Doc stood, hoping what he'd said had made sense. "Get some rest, Daiya. You'll feel better when you wake up. I'll be right here."
Turning from his young friend, the street medic walked back over to the table, where Cassus was keeping watch. After all their efforts, Hacks did seem to have truly stabilized... and stabilized enough that she was actually waking up. This would be a disorienting experience for her, he had no doubt. He hadn't been there for the firefight that'd led to all this, but from what he could gather it seemed that Hacks didn't remember them. Now here she was, laid out on a restaurant's kitchen table, covered in dried blood and bacta-soaked dressings, waking up to yet more strangers. "Thanks for keeping an eye on her, Cassus," he said. "Welcome back, Hacks. You're among friends."
At the time, he just hoped he was right about that, hoped she wasn't a doppelgänger or other such imposter.
Much later on, after all that would happen at the Tatt-Chat and beyond, he'd wonder...
Would it have been better if he'd let Daiya end Hacks then and there?
